Snapshots of an Extraordinary Life
by 98Shaddowolff98
Summary: Unconnected, unrelated drabbles based on a word choice. Rated T because I can't promise no violence etc. Chapter 17: Writer's Block HIATUS
1. Silence

The silent moments are the best.

A silent smile, a silent laugh, sometimes even just sitting in silence.

Silence is rare in his life, but when it comes John always tries to make the most of it.

Except now, when he is desperately trying to get Sherlock to breathe.

To break his silence.

He's never hated silence more than in that one moment.

And, as Sherlock finally takes his first breathe in two whole minutes, John prays his world will never be that silent again.

**Writers Block only seems to come for long stories, so these short stories are the result. Will be a collection of unrelated drabbles but could possibly be longer if I feel up to it**. **Would love feedback!**


	2. Snow

John has always loved Winter.

It held precious memories of snow fights, snowmen, hot chocolate and warm fires.

It has always been his favorite season. Not because of Christmas or New Years.

He looked forward to the snow.

There was something magical about waking up to find the world covered in white.

It had snowed while he was in Afghanistan. That kind of snow had been less magical. It had been cold, wet and uncomfortable.

It also was often mixed with blood, dirt and grit.

When he had returned home, snow didn't look as appealing as he thought it would. The cold made his shoulder ache and his cane was constantly slipping, which made walking a difficult task. His shoes were always wet and the air left you chilled to the bone.

This year had been much, much better and winter started to look better too.

It had started to snow a few days ago and now everything was covered in soft white powder that reminded him of his childhood.

Sitting on the couch with Sherlock, watching TV and eating warm soup filled him with the kind of happiness and peace he could remember from decades ago as a child.

John realized Sherlock had stopped his constant commentary on the TV. In fact, the detective had been very quiet for the last few minutes.

Glancing over his shoulder he found that Sherlock had fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch.

He smiled to himself and got up to fetch a blanket.

His flatmate taken care of, he trudged up the stairs to his own room.

Settling between the warm blankets John sighed with pleasure.

Yes, he has always loved Winter.


	3. Text

Text messages are powerful things.

While being deceptively innocent, only a collection of letters strung together and sent to one another through a satellite, they can shake people's world.

A text message late at night could cause fear and worry.

_Hand over the evidence or Sherlock is a dead man._

It could unleash frustration and irritation.

_Johnny! Could you lend me some money possibly? HW  
><em>

It could produce the strange pair of annoyance and fondness.

_Hurry up. Talking to skull is not working. SH  
><em>

It could cause dread and stress.

_They haven't found him yet. Lestrade._

And in Mycrofts case a text could probably change the world as we know it.

But, ever so rarely, there will be a text message that warms John and makes his heart sing.

_I miss you. I'm sorry and please come back. SH_


	4. Skull

**A/N This time I decided I should do Sherlock's POV. Feel free to PM me with any prompts anyone might have. Enjoy!**

Disclaimer: Oops! I didn't do one before. Well, I am not Steven Moffat because if I was there would be more than 3 episodes. So, yeah. I don't own anything.

* * *

><p>He thinks better out loud.<p>

But everyone is so unbearably noisy.

Breathing, moving, fidgeting, shuffling, thinking, sighing, talking...

_Just s__hut up!_

So, since the drooling masses that currently inhabited London couldn't just stop and _think_ instead of movingmovingmoving he would just have to find something that didn't move to talk to.

Answer: Skull.

It did attract quite a fair bit of unwanted attention, but it was always there and never butted in with idiotic suggestions or scold him if he was behaving 'inappropriately'.

Unlike John.

John wouldn't stop moving and always butted in and was always wearing that look of resignation and reprimand if he did the 'wrong' thing.

Sometimes he just wanted to wipe that look off of his face with his fists.

And now John was at Sarah's because of something Sherlock did or didn't do and really it just doesn't matter anyway.

He isn't there and Sherlock can't think.

He should be able to. Much, much better than if he was there because John was annoying and dull and slow.

Sometimes.

He sighed, putting every ounce of irritation and annoyance into it as he could.

Perhaps talking to Skull would help.

_He_ hadn't left.

So he sat there for a while, on the couch in his bathrobe and pajamas, skull in hand.

Just...talking.

Skull only smiled back.

Grudgingly, Sherlock offered it a quicksilver grin.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the next day when John had come back<em>...<em>come home...that he figured out how someone could murder their fiancee with a toothbrush and a spray-paint can.

He had been pacing.

Movingmovingmoving...

Because that's what John did, right?

He moved just like all the other 'normal' people. Maybe if he just moved enough he could think, because sitting still was _boring_ and Skull was irritatingly silent.

Not that it ever wasn't, despite what people said he wasn't a crazed psychopath.

_Highly functioning Sociopath, thank you very much._

He hadn't realized he had been talking aloud until John answered him with some silly little remark that couldn't possibly fit anyw-

Oh!

That...that is _Brilliant!_

* * *

><p>A few months later he found Skull again, he had been looking for a jar of eye's he had misplaced, at the back of some cupboard gathering dust and smiling that unwavering smile at him.<p>

He stared back.

He heard John walk into the room, complaining about the mess and the lack of milk and the tongue currently sitting on the table.

He ripped his attention away from Skull and instead turned it to his flatmate and...friend?

John offered a small half-grin at him, before leaving with the claim he had work.

He was still smiling back long after he had gone.


	5. Milk

There never seemed to be enough milk.

There was always a shortage of fresh milk in their flat. And yes, _fresh_ implying that often you could find curdled, sour milk sitting on the counter that nobody in their right mind would drink.

Sometimes you could blissfully make a cup of tea without the hour long trip to the stores and back for the ever elusive ingredient.

Sometimes you could not.

Like today, for example.

John had gone to the supermarket, at the whim of Mister Sherlock 'I'm-obviously-above-such-pedestrian-trifles' Holmes, to fetch the milk.

Again.

Because apparently that's what _he_ was for, when they didn't have a case.

John Watson, the milk fetcher. How classy.

_Maybe I should just retire and become a dairy farmer. Plenty of milk then._

John's step faltered as he walked, the bag of groceries swaying with the jerking movement, as the strange thought crossed his mind.

He needed more sleep. Much, much more.

* * *

><p>By the time he had gotten home he was longing for that cup of tea he had wanted. Two. Hours. Ago.<p>

Preferably with the milk he had bought specifically for this purpose.

He had even got past the chip and PIN machine.

But no.

And so, instead of throttling his flatmate, who had snatched the milk out of the bag and proceeded to dump it unceremoniously into a big saucepan filled with-

Well, filled with decomposing tongues.

_Note to self: Inform Sherlock how pouring the milk his saint-of-a-flatmate has just bought into a saucepan filled with tongues is Very Not Good._

No, instead of throttling his flatmate he spent the rest of the afternoon getting more milk.

Again.

(And this time, the chip and PIN machine wanted revenge.)_  
><em>


	6. Sleep

Sherlock did not require the amount of sleep that the average adult needed.

In fact, he could go for extremely long periods of time without sleep, although this usually ended with him passing out for a good 24 hours as his sleep debt caught up with him.

In an ideal world he wouldn't have to listen to any of his bodies demands, but seeing as that was highly improbable, he would have to acknowledge his bodies weaknesses from time to time.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He was also well aware that other people were not as efficient as himself.

Mainly because they would not stop nagging.

_There's no milk Sherlock. Why is there never any milk in the fridge! I bought some a few days ago, there should be milk. Why do you expect_ me_ to go and get milk for you all the time..._

_Why did you wake me up! I'm tired, I haven't slept properly in three days. No I don't want to go with you to look at blood spatter patterns of the victim to prove a point to Lestrade, it's 3 in the morning. No I won't send a text instead it's _3 IN THE MORNING...

_I'm hungry. I can't even remember the last time I ate. I don't care if you don't eat anything I very well am going to. And if you then you had better tell me before I get home with the food because I don't want to have to starve because you changed your mind at the last moment and expected me to hand over some of MY food..._

Nag nag nag nag nag.

But the most annoying of those rants John takes upon himself to inflict the world with, he muses, are the ones concerning directed at him.

_Sherlock when was the last time you ate? _

_Sherlock when was the last time you slept?  
><em>

_Sherlock when was the last time you had a shower?  
><em>

_Sherlock when was the last time you shaved?_

It's days like these he feels like strangling his flatmate to death.

Painfully and slowly.

He can go for a very long time without eating and supplements tea and nicotine anyway, so food has never been much of an issue.

Very rarely is he anything less than immaculate and on those occasions, he admits, a shower would be called for.

He always shaves. It was just that one time for a case that John only brings up to tease him about...

But sleep?

While he can go for a long time without sleep, it always catches up with him. There is no loophole like there is with consumption, he'll simply wake up and find himself on the floor after passing out from exhaustion, enraged by the slowness of his mind during the waking stages and thoroughly irritated by his 'weaknesses'.

But sometimes he'll wake up on the couch with a warm, thick blanket on him and his head comfortably propped up on a pillow.

And then, he won't mind quite so much.


	7. Consequence

Each action, each decision leads to another decision and another action.

Often, there will be an unfathomable amount of decisions for a situation which all have an unfathomable amount of decisions based on the outcome of the decision.

But I digress.

The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that while sometimes there are millions and millions of decisions for a situation that could shape our world, sometimes there are only a few.

And sometimes it is simply a choice between option A or option B.

Unknown to the inhabitants of this world, the day that Doctor John H. Watson walked through the park and ran into Mike Stamford, a choice was to be made.

A simple choice really. But with outcomes that would affect the world, perhaps not each individual country and person, but certainly many countries and many more people.

Sitting on the bench Stamford had a choice.

He could, after John had stated his disbelief that someone would want to share a flat with him and he in turn answered he was the second person to say that, finish his coffee and say his goodbye's and think nothing more of it.

Or he could introduce John to a man he did not particularly like or enjoy being around that much to see if he would want to share a flat with him.

In his mind the consequences for both actions were:

A) Life would go on as usual and the bother of traveling back to St. Barts and purposefully seeking out Sherlock Holmes saved. It certainly seemed much more desirable.

B) He could introduce his former acquaintance to Sherlock and see how everything panned out. It was more effort but it could be interesting to see how long John lasted around the often insufferable man.

Humans have the astounding ability to completely miss the impact their actions may have in the long term.

The Earth, however, saw the consequences for the two decisions in the long term and shook with panic.

A) Doctor John H. Watson would take his life in the small hours of the morning not eight hours after talking with Stamford. Sherlock Holmes would overdose on cocaine two months later. Moriarty's empire would expand, causing grief and destroying lives whenever he felt so inclined. Great disasters, terrorist attacks, toppled governments and eventually London would fall. It would fall hard and never rise again.

B) The two men would forge a friendship so strong no force was great enough to stop them. Through careful planning and a faked death Moriarty would fall and then his followers would be hunted down one by one until there was nothing but ashes left of his empire. The world would always have pain, but those two men would save a considerable amount of it. Despite their dangerous life they would both have an exceptionally long life and, disregarding three long and hard years, would rarely leave each others sides.

Crossing its metaphoric fingers, The Earth hoped and prayed that Stamford would take the time and effort to introduce the two and at the same time cursed humanities incessant need to cut down the amount of effort it wanted to use for itself.

So when John Watson and Mike Stamford walked through those doors at St Barts, Stamford introduced John to Sherlock, The Earth breathed a sigh of great relief.

It was hard enough to worry about the two friends when she had that asteroid that was going to hit in sixty years to keep her busy.


	8. Fear

Sherlock does not find himself in situations where he is truly afraid.

Being kidnapped is...disconcerting to say the least, but he never feels fear.

Real, bone-shaking terror that sets your teeth on edge and strips away all logic unit nothing is controlling you except the fear.

That is not to say he has never been _scared_ before. Though even then the feeling is fairly uncommon.

He hadn't felt fear when he was beat up at school.

He hadn't felt fear when he woke up in a strange house with no memory of the past two days.

He hadn't felt fear when he was mugged and left for dead in an alley.

He hadn't felt fear when he was standing across from John at The Pool.

He hadn't felt fear when he was threatened by Moriarty.

But that smile. _His _smile. The smile that taunted and taunted him day in and day out until he could hardly think, that mocked him constantly, was enough to drive the sociopath over the edge.

_'I made you care...'_

Warm and Soft and Gentle replaced by Cold and Sharp and Hard.

_'You are such a fool...'_

Familiar blue eyes that ripped his chest open and _burnt his heart out._

_'It was pathetically easy. Really, do you think anyone actually _cares_ about you?'_

The mannerisms, the quirks, heck even the limp had disappeared and a stranger waltzed through that door._  
><em>

_'Tell me, Sherlock. Did you suspect, even once, that you were being deceived?'_

It wasn't a gun that held Sherlock firmly in place but it was a horrible mix of shock, disbelief and _pain._

_' I so look forward to the next time we meet Sherlock...'_

He flinched at the hate and disdain that dripped off of his name.

_'...they say pride comes before a fall. And you are so very, very proud Sherlock. I think I'll enjoy hearing you beg for death the most.'_

And for the first time in his entire life, staring into the face of both a complete stranger and close companion, Sherlock Holmes felt real fear.

Sebastian Moran simply...smiled.


	9. Promise

"Never...ever...again."

Hot, wet tears mingle with ragged, dirty clothing.

"You hear me? Don't you ever leave again."

Hands fisted in cloth, half-strangling the recipient of a massive bear hug.

A tired, weary chuckle. And perhaps a bit...relieved?

"My dear John, I don't intend to."

Once smooth hands gently threaded through tawny blonde hair.

"Promise me Sherlock."

Rundown ocean blue meets rusted stormy grey.

"I promise you, John. Never again."


	10. Crawl

Sherlock had _that_ look on his face.

The 'I-think-you'll-consider-this-Bit Not Good-but-perhaps-you-won't-notice-if-I-don't-say-anything' look.

This look was normally followed by yelling, cursing and, on one memorable occasion, quite a bit of laughing.

John had entered the room from a walk through the park and was standing in the living room. He had originally been heading to his room but had paused to glance at his flatmate, who was currently standing very calmly on top of the coffee table, with a box riddled with holes in his hand.

_That's not a sight you see everyday._

"Ah, John. There you are."

There was a rather awkward silence as John tried (and failed) to comprehend what Sherlock could possible be doing.

"Yeah...um...what are you doing Sherlock?"

Suddenly, Sherlock stiffened and slowly raised the box.

"John. I want you to stay very, very still."

His hair itched. He went to scratch his head, but he was reprimanded almost immediately by Sherlock.

"No! Don't move. We don't want to kill such an unusually large specimen, now do we?"

At the word specimen John had started to panic.

Now that his head seemed to have become hypersensitive, he could feel hairy, fat legs moving over his hair and when they touched the skin on the side of his face he let out a very manly screech.

"WHAT IS ON MY FACE!"

He rolled his eyes.

Sherlock Bleeding Holmes had the nerve to roll his eyes when there was..._something_...crawling its way along the right side of his face.

"Its a Bird-eating Spider, John. It dropped off of the ceiling when you walked into the room. And if you could please stop speaking, it would be greatly appreciated."

By this time the spider had started to creep its way down John's neck, so John did the only thing he really could.

He momentarily experienced the need to shut down his brain.

He most certainly_ did not_ faint.

**Bird eating spiders look so...hairy. And large. Ugh! Look them up. Poor John, hate to have one on my face :)**


	11. Pain

Pain can come in many different forms.

It can be the sharp stinging sensation from a slap, shallow cut or needle.

It can be the slow throbbing agony of a headache, infection or healing wound.

It can be the clenching hand that grips your heart after a death, divorce or break-up that slowly releases it after a few months, years or perhaps decades.

It can even be an indicator of good, such as when antibacterials are killing the germs trying to harm you.

John would like to think he knows much more about pain than many people. Being a surgeon on the battlefield brought him into all kinds of situations where he encountered _other_ people's pain. And then, after getting shot, there was the pain of physical therapy and healing.

But John has never come into contact with the kind of pain he feels now before.

The best way to describe it would be like saying that there is a cold and merciless beast slowly devouring his heart and soul constantly, even when it seems that there is nothing more of him to take, ripping and tearing and finally after a time leaving a dull, empty ache that is a reminder of all that he's lost and everything he used to be even after he's moved on.

They say time heals all wounds, but really, the sight of seeing _him_ after those three long years started healing the pain in his heart that he had long given up on ever removing.

Even after he punched him in the face.


	12. Belong

**A/N: Trying something a little different. Hope it's not too repetitive!**

A shared moment.

Two men, sitting in the aftermath of a case.

One, having lost his sister in a horrible serial-killing spree, committing suicide from losing the last of his family, losing his mobility, losing his reason to live.

The other committing suicide after being beaten and ridiculed his insight, intelligence, detachment.

Simultaneously, one pulled the trigger, the other overdosed.

Their last thoughts were that they never felt like they belonged there anyway.

* * *

><p>A shared moment.<p>

Two men, sitting in the aftermath of a case.

One, having witnessed a horrible murder, recounting the morbid scene in the hopes that the killer will be brought to justice, that the law will prevail, the child be revenged.

The other searching for said killer, ruthlessly hunting down the man not for the child but for enjoyment, stimulation, a high.

Simultaneously, one is shot in a surprise attack, the other for witnessing the attack.

Their last thoughts were that they never felt like they belonged there anyway.

* * *

><p>A shared moment.<p>

Two men, sitting in the aftermath of a case.

One, bleeding out in an attack perfectly disguised to look like a random mugging by a serial killer, murderer, psychopath.

The other, riding the high that came from a potential kill, eventual murder, painful death.

Simultaneously, one is assassinated for being too great a threat to the government, the other from nature taking it's course.

Their last thoughts were that they never felt like they belonged there anyway.

* * *

><p>A shared moment.<p>

Two men, sitting in the aftermath of a case.

One making tea in the kitchen, preparing to join in the tradition begun by his flatmate, colleague, friend.

The other, riding out the high from a well solved case with the traditional Chinese take-away, junk TV, best friend.

Simultaneously, one yells at the TV, the other rolls his eyes fondly.

Their last thoughts, before the crash of adrenaline caught up with them and they fell asleep where they sat, were that they finally had a place were they belonged.


	13. Bored

**A/N: Wow...I just wrote three (albeit small) chapters in a row. I wanted to write something light and fluffy, but ended up with this. I think I'm addicted to angst. o_O**

Sherlock, bored out of his mind after _three weeks_ without a case, is a nightmare.

The constant moaning, shooting the wall, complaining and lazing about.

Then finally, like a beacon of hope, Detective Inspector Lestrade pulled up at their flat and announced that the serial killings were out of hand and they desperately needed his...Sherlock Holmes's...help.

And then standing around the gruesomely mangled body, deductions being formed rapid-fire and theories discarded and considered each second, the bored is finally alleviated.

And John, the small overlooked man lurking in the background, smiles as he remembers the screams, the inflicted pain and the life slowly ebbing away.

After all, Sherlock isn't the only one who gets bored.


	14. Human

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed, alerted and put this on their favorites. I know I dropped off of the face of the Earth, but I've been busy, what can I say? Anyway, here's another chapter!  
><strong>

Many people, over the years, have berated Sherlock Holmes on his cold and detached attitude towards people, death, life and anything else he deems 'unnecessary.'

Even with his massive hard drive, his memory space didn't need to be filled with things he wasn't going to use.

He didn't _need_ knowledge on the Solar System (Thank you very much John!), nor did he need to know the significance of 42.

The nursery rhyme was for a case and he'll admit he didn't delete it, but he would get around to it. (Shut up John...)

It's not that he _tries_ to be different. Or that he doesn't care.

Because he does. More than anyone would ever know.

It's just that it's a little hard to care much for us sniveling, pathetic humans when you're a highly advanced psychopathic alien.

(_High-Functioning Sociopathic _alien, thank you_._)


	15. Impostor

**A/N: Once again, trying something a bit different. Turned to a random page in the dictionary, and pointed randomly to a word on the page. And guess what? Yep! More angst! Yaay...**

_Impostor - Noun_

_A person who dishonestly pretends to be someone else..._

* * *

><p>He is a chameleon.<p>

Blending in is his specialty.

He can make himself look as old as he pleases and quite younger than he is.

No one knows who he actually is.

He wasn't lying, you know, when he told him his name. He finds that using such a common name often allays fears rather than raise questions, as people might usually think.

And strangely enough, he believed him.

Of course he had just strapped himself (But not quite...) to a bomb, threatened three others and killed another.

But he, in all his genius, still believed him when he told him his 'name'.

People can be so wonderfully blind sometimes.

And it's quite strange, Jim muses, to be standing across from the very person who he is impersonating. If he hadn't of known what the man was capable of he wouldn't have paid him any thought. Even know, it was a bit hard to fear him.

Although his knees do shake minutely when John sends a look that promises pain, interrogation and an untraceable death his way.


	16. Family

On a warm spring day, John walked through a graveyard. He knew the path well and automatically followed the trail as his mind wandered.

Though, he was mainly thinking about family.

And loss.

With his parents deceased, his sister drunk and no other close relatives, John did not have much of a family left.

He still loved his sister, but there wasn't a relationship there anymore. Neither of them made any attempt and when they did talk, it was always strained.

The family he had formed in the Army had been taken away as soon as the bullet hit his shoulder. When you were in a warzone with people, you couldn't help but form a sense of family.

And of course, perhaps the greatest loss had been the loss of the beginning of his new family while he had been away.

He stared down at the familiar gravestone and gently placed the velvet pink roses in front of it.

_Mary Watson._

_1970-2008_

_A cherished daughter and wife_

He had a new family now, with home as Baker St and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

But he couldn't help but wonder if that too might be taken from him.

**I promise to make it my personal goal to write something fluffy. Because all I seem to be able to spew out is sad, oh-my-gosh-(insert name here)-is-actually-evil! or angst stuff. And yes, I borrowed Mary Morstan. So, I don't own her. Or anything for that matter. **


	17. Writer's Block

**A/N: I wrote this because I can't seem to write anything. Odd, ain't it?  
><strong>

John is sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him.

He has been sitting there for...

Frustratingly, John checks his wristwatch.

_3 hours._

Despairingly he runs his hands through his hair. He has been trying, to no avail, to write up his and Sherlock's last case.

He can't even think of a title for the case.

He glares angrily at computer screen for a solid 5 minutes before he closing the laptop in irritation and gets up to make himself a cup of tea.

When he returns he sits down in his chair and picks up the newspaper that had been lying on the floor next to it in an attempt to forget about the abandoned laptop and blog post.

After re-reading the same sentence 8 times he concedes defeat and drops the newspaper back onto the ground.

He chances a glance at his laptop again.

It feels like the machine is mocking him. Sitting there so calmly on the sofa. Peacefully.

All he feels like doing is writing up the case. That's the only thing he wants to do.

And he _can't type anything!_

He gets up and opens the laptop again, this time just writing all of his frustrations down and, without letting himself think about it, posts it on his blog.

It doesn't help his writer's block.

But it makes him feel a little better, so he considers it a win.

Until Sherlock rushes into the room saying something about an 'interesting murder' and 'urine samples' and drags him away from his laptop.

He really, _really_ doesn't want to know.

**I hate writer's block. At least I can make John suffer my pain too *evil laugh***


End file.
